


Opposite Yet the Same

by Nomadian_C



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (IDW Comics), Sonic the Hedgehog (Video Games), Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: Awkwardness, Drama & Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Mild Sexual Content, Near Future, POV First Person, Post-Canon, References to Depression, Tangle is closer to an OC than anything, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, at first..., at some point, this is not too romancy too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 21:37:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16982262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomadian_C/pseuds/Nomadian_C
Summary: Tangle the Lemur, a struggling young adult with no memories of her past, seems to live in an entirely different world from famous hero Sonic the Hedgehog. However, when a string of incidents brings them under one roof, she soon finds out how similar those worlds actually are.





	1. Who knew so many people liked the name Tangle?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This was made before much information about Tangle and Whisper was released. Continue with that in mind!

**◊×◊×◊×◊· Thursday ·◊×◊×◊×◊**

Breathing in, looking down.

He stands over the counter with a radiant blue glow, hands in his pockets and a voice soft yet overpowering. People of all shades stare eagerly at the man as he lists his order with the smooth confidence he never lets down.

Breathing out, eyes darting.

The chances a woman like myself would ever be in the mere vicinity someone of this caliber, someone of this importance, could never be lower. A woman who cannot stay in a lousy apartment without one night stands of monetary love and trips to an amateur film studio of dubious nature. Two opposite worlds of civility; one is a respected man of altruism and bravery and the other is a depraved woman of obedience and debauchery.

Yet, here I am, standing behind one of the most beloved men to ever live and, honestly, would ever live.

Swallowing, coughing.

The older male finishes his order—Order 223, I overhear—and steps aside to the pick-up counter. Although the cashier was more than willing to put his order on the house, the hedgehog slips his wallet back into his red jogging pants, still listening to whatever song escapes his earbuds into his pointed ears.

And, for some reason, I catch the hero giving a covert wink at me as I step to where he just was. And, for some reason, I stay speechless as the rabbit in front of me calls for the attention of a stupid lemur with a gaping mouth and a racing mind.

Sonic the Hedgehog just acknowledged me.

“Ma’am, you're going to have to move out of the way if—”

“Move out of—?” I finally snap back to reality. “Oh, uh, I… May I have a tall… hot, uh light frappuccino, please…”

To the left of my peripheral vision, I see him smirking slightly, laying his left arm on the counter and his fist under his cheek. It seems like his green eyes are rapid firing daggers at me, yet I stare on, ignoring him, for no particular good reason, like much of the other choices I make.

Order 223 is called and the hedgehog leaves with a coffee, a brown bag, and a continuous smirk.

With my luck, that would be the last time our paths cross.

**◊×◊×◊×◊· Friday ·◊×◊×◊×◊**

Last night felt empty. Not good, not even for the fleeting moment that comes as fast as it’s gone.

He lays next to me, some weasel who barely understands what “enticement” means, filling his room with choked snores and the smell of cigarettes. I lay away from him, avoiding the disgusting smell and trying to forget the disgusting taste he forced upon me some hours ago. I hated the taste and smell and snores and mere fact he kept me here overnight… for whatever reason. While I'm getting cash for this, sometimes I wonder if the money is even worth it.

I find myself on my feet at the edge of the bed, staring off into the disappearing blackness beyond a single broken window in his mess of a room. Distant stars slowly fade into hues of blue, red, and violet, moving aside for the most radiant of them all, not to return until the sun sets from the limelight, leaving total darkness for the moon and stars to handle… I'm being melodramatic again. I gotta get out of here.

My tail of four feet and far more (that the weasel had to constantly remind was a persistent annoyance during what he believed was “our moment”) pushes me off of the bed and onto a dirty, wet pile of clothes. I pick up whatever is mine and begin to leave. The smell is just too bad and I think I'm going crazy.

Downstairs, I find his wallet on his dining room table. Is it stealing if it's technically mine? Should I really anger this guy? No, maybe I shouldn't, but I take $470 anyway and leave out of the front door. Who carries that much cash these days anyway?

Seventeen minutes later I'm at my apartment, tip-toeing up metal stairs and opening the door to apartment D6. I hate the barely furnished rooms and the greasy walls and the never-ending smell of piss. I throw my dirty clothes on the stained carpet, and then shuffle from the living room into the kitchen that is barely a kitchen and is just an extension of the living room. I hold my head as to beg this splitting headache to leave me alone, before opening a travel container of several pills and putting them in my hand. I take a small water bottle out of the fridge and look at the time over my barely-functional stove as I chug my pills down.

5:42 AM.

After letting out a hoarse sigh, I take a brisk shower. I barely shiver under the ice-cold water as it races down my mess of short light blue hair to my huge dark grey feet. I dry myself while brushing my crooked teeth, and slowly put on my undergarments, covering my only tickets to any monetary gain other than my face. I lay over on the four cushioned seats that I call a couch and turn on the television to watch the local news, given by an adorable gray raccoon and a handsome violet hedgehog who both barely look over twenty years old.

The girl begins. “Dr. Eggman thwarted again after Sonic and company defeat his army of robots in the east end of Metropolis—”

To think someone like that even acknowledged me is astounding. He’s basically a regular on the news.

“Here’s a local on the attack last night.” The station changes shots to a male cat with permanent look of surprise on his face.

“Sonic just swooped in and— ** _boom_**! That fast, everythin’ was gone and that big guy was knocked out or somethin’. I’ll never forget it…”

It transitions to the violet hedgehog, who begins to speak. “As you may remember, Eggman inflicted a similar attack last week in Metropolis, where a robot that resembled the renowned hero began to destroy several buildings in the downtown area…”

“There is no telling what or when the mad scientist’s next attack will be, but we can safely assume that Metropolians should be prepared, attentive, and vigilant…”

I glance at the time again, noticing that it’s 6:18 AM and much lighter outside.

Time for my morning walk.

**◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊**

Twenty minutes have passed since I left my house and I’m almost at my favorite market downtown, where my friend works at. I forgot that I needed to go shopping today, since I do so every other Friday for worthwhile deals, and, with the little amount I have after setting aside for bills and whatnot, I guess I need to get something for the day. After all, maybe eating only two apples, a ham, egg and cheese sandwich, and a frappuccino for two days isn’t the best idea for someone whose stomach barely wants to let her know she’s hungry.

As I approach as steep downhill slope, the coffee shop from yesterday passes by me. I couldn’t help but catch a glance, since 6:30 AM was about the time I went there yesterday, and I wanted to see if a certain hedgehog was inside, sending women hidden messages and ordering a coffee lighter than his perfect skin.

Of course he isn’t.

That was most likely a rare moment since the hedgehog lives in the small, more "rural" side of Station Square. It’s in a bordering state, and who regulars a coffee shop from another state? I’m too optimistic.

I walk some more until I get to the market, immediately noticing something different.

Police cars surround the area.

I mean, I saw two police cars drive by while walking down the street not too long ago. However, another store along the street cleverly hid the market that is across the road. Now I can see where they are going to, and it’s the place my best friend is currently working at.

I step beside another person who watches on the sidewalk across.

“Wh-What happened?” I ask. I turn to the market.

“There was this huge blue light inside, then nothing, nobody,” he mutters.

“Nobody?”

“Yeah,” the reptile says with clear fear in his eyes. “Nobody coming out, and people who go in immediately go out. Including me. I smelled somethin’ _terrible_ in that damn market. Like a bunch of burnt, dead bodies. Had to call the police because it was _not_ right, at all. It made me fuckin’ puke. They came just now, like two minutes ago.”

“Do… you think Sonic will be here?” I ask a stupid, out-of-nowhere question. I should be asking for my friend. I cough.

“I dunno,” the man shrugs. “This some crazy shit, though, so maybe he will.”

I look up, staring blankly at the small building that only accompanies noises of police murmurs and radio emissions. Silence and emptiness, he says. My friend was in there.

Police walk up to us, who are now joined by seven other watchers, and tell most of us to leave the premises. I tell them my friend Sticks is working there. The wolf I tell that to is silent. I stare on and avoid piecing it together as they push us away and I struggle to breathe.

I look ahead and see a white aircraft quietly descend onto the parking lot that police are trying to block off. A small, yellow fox with twin tails and a pink hedgehog with a dress too short for her body slide off of its seats and glide down on the pavement. A certain blue hedgehog follows, immediately throwing himself off the aircraft’s left wing. He talks to police for a moment and… What the…

He looked at me, gorgeous green orbs straight into my shit-purple eyes, for a solid two seconds, and then back at the police.

Sonic the Hedgehog acknowledged me… again.

He motions to the other two to stay back as the police over there leads him inside and the police over here leads me away. He left the building with a hand covering a distraught face, as if the smell was the most unbearable thing he's ever breathed in.

Forget the groceries. I have to go to work.

I… have to go to work.

**◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊**

My cubicle smells of new printer paper and whatever Stacy the Hyperactive Kitten is having next to me. Something like microwaved chicken ramen with too much hot sauce for a kitty like her. With a life of broken senses, I can at least say that my sense of smell is one of my strong points.

No. Stop it.

Everyone seems to be enamored on their phones, watching breaking news about twenty-two people who were suddenly eviscerated in a small family market with no obvious cause. The place reeks of burnt blood and scorched skin, people say.

And here I am, distracted by noodle soup.

At least I texted Sticks, who, as the luckiest person alive, switched shifts with a friend for an event that morning. She's a superstitious person with unkempt fur and tarot cards in her pockets. Maybe she just knew. She usually just knows things.

I pull out my phone and watch as the most gorgeous hedgehog to ever live tells the news that him and his team of friends will get to the bottom of the massacre. People think it's Eggman. It could be. But he still warns that there could be other suspects. We do live in a world of animals with powerful abilities and emotional issues. Or maybe that's just in comics.

I turn off my phone after replying to an uncomfortable text by a green misogynistic woodpecker. The things I will do for money.

I continue to waste my life away on a keyboard and a phone with a screaming inbred. He blames me for what the Rose Company can't do. It's not my fault you spent money on that purple dress with plastic sequins and a giant tear for $765. His voice is very loud and full of the rawest rage. I tell him to be quiet. He starts to call me names. Instead of just calmly hanging up the phone, I lose it, call him a "sorry mistake", and _then_ hang up the phone. The yelling was too much and I like my ears too much and I hate this job too much. Breathing in, breathing out. I am surprised with that rant, since I never thought I can get that angry. If you can even call that "angry".

I get called down to the office of my manager immediately after. I walk in and see the familiar purple chameleon who hates everyone equally but equally hates me more. He recites his policy of three chances and how I blew them all and how disappointed he is and how I need to be more careful and how I need to overcome the mental illness he swears I have just because I act “different”. I quit. I hate the smell of Stacy’s stupid salty soup anyway.

I leave with a near-empty box of belongings and few goodbyes. I stare at my box throughout the entire building—through the endless rows of cubicles, down the musty flights of stairs, past the group of stuck-up fashion connoisseurs who all do nothing but gossip with each other—and now I'm outside the doors that trapped me in purgatory. Outside of a tall glass building in the middle of the city with no car and nobody to call. Sticks is still busy. Busy with something more important than whatever I have to do.

I decide to walk to the coffee shop about a mile away and possibly get the cheapest thing there, now that my bills are dependent on random illegal services that don't pay nearly enough for someone living in any part of Metropolis. I don't see myself staying here for long. Starvation, eviction, or a bottle of antidepressants will claim me first.

I finally get into the small green building and throw my box under an unclean table. I sit there, facing the door, with an empty mind for about ten minutes, trying to cause broken eyes to let my stress and emptiness and sadness out in the form of tears.

Nothing.

Out of nowhere, I hear screams outside the window next to me. I look up and to my right for whatever is causing them, only to learn that these aren't screams of terror, since, instead, they're screams of admiration. I stare on and see mobian girls jumping up and down with glee.

I glance in front of me as a greeting bell rings above my head.

Passing by is a beautiful blue hedgehog who _most definitely_ shouldn't be here. He glances at me as he struts in deep red sweats, with a smile that can cure depression. He continues to the small line, ignoring people who offer their place and turning away from me. He gets to the counter finally—I've been mindlessly staring this entire time—and he leaves it with two coffee cups in each hand.

The hedgehog passes by me and is almost through the door, up until he suddenly turns around, as if it was what he was planning on doing that entire time.

I swallow and look down, not believing what is happening right in front of me.

Sonic the Hedgehog is at _my_ table.

He empties out his left hand to place a tall coffee cup with “Sonic” written hastily on its side. On _my_ table. I'm frozen. I breathe in, cough, breathe out.

I finally look up to the hedgehog in front of me, who now brings gazes to my attention, including ones from paparazzi who just want a sleazy story for their hungry nosiness or fans who have nothing better to do.

“You looked kinda down, so I got you a tall… hot, uh light frappuccino.” He's mocking me. I think he's joking. I'm bad at this.

“Thanks.” That is all my stupid mouth is able to say. I pull the cup towards me. “D-Did… you… uh, know I was here?” I ask before clearing my throat.

“Well…” He is quiet for a second, then continues.

“Really, no,” Sonic swirls his cup. “This place has _the_ best coffee in the tri-state area, that's it.” He ends his statement with an inflection that could raise eyebrows. How _exactly_ does he know I'm here?

He smiles and it's annoyingly distracting. It seems like the sun is focusing all of its rays towards his perfect white teeth. It's blindingly beautiful. How cliché. The older mobian sips his coffee that should be too hot for consumption. I breathe in.

“Anyway… Tangle, was it?”

How does he know my name? I breathe out.

“Yes, but… I hate that name,” I say something stupid and out-of-nowhere.

“I think it's pretty cool,” he says a little quieter, looking out of the giant dirty window to his left. I stay silent and he turns back. “Well, gotta go now. Ask Sticks how she's doing for me, ‘kay?”

“You know her?”

He's silent for a second, then speaks. “There was this huge thing that happened some days ago. She helped us out big-time. My lawyers put a… silence agreement thingy on her, though. Pretty secret stuff.” He sips his coffee and winks. “Don't tell her I said a thing, ‘aight?”

As if she'd believe I spoke to Sonic the Hedgehog at my table in this coffee shop in this city in my lifetime… Wait, she knows _Sonic_? _And told him about me_!?

“Do you… know me through her?” I manage to ask.

He gives me half-lidded eyes and a smile behind a coffee cup. He shrugs. “More or less.”

Sonic turns around with a continued smile, as if he's cheesing for the camera. And just like that he's out the door and gone.

As the sun sets to my right, ending one of the strangest days I've ever experienced, ecstatic fans stand next to my table and ask for a useless autograph. Who knew so many people liked the name Tangle?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for trying out my fic! I hope you enjoy the progression of Tangle's character... And if you're skeptical of that really being Tangle, then I'd say to keep reading... Many things shall be revealed in the future, lol. See ya!


	2. Four-hundred-and-six.

**◊×◊×◊×◊· Saturday ·◊×◊×◊×◊**

Last night was terrible. Not good at all, not even for the fleeting moment that comes as fast as it’s gone. No, I'm wrong. I didn't even experience that last night.

I wake myself up from painful grogginess and back side aches. The beaked jerk-off dug his nails into my back as deep as he could and showed no remorse or carefulness to me or my behind. He used me like a toy, not another mobian being. I think he was angry. Or maybe it’s just in the job description.

This one wakes up quite early for work, unlike another one of my clients, and left my payment on the desk next to me. How so nice of him. I take it and my stuff and leave to a three-mile journey back home.

After what felt like forever, I limp up the rusting stairs of the building, to my room door, and down the hallway. This place is a mess. Should I thoroughly clean it now or just wait for the impending eviction notice to arrive? Maybe I should stay at Sticks’s when that happens, even if her house reeks of cheese and a hippie’s dreams… In fact, maybe I shouldn't.

I wash the small pile of week-old dishes in the sink before I take a vehemently cold shower. I decide to finish what the bird couldn't last night. It's insane how bad someone can be at something.

I put on my clothes and head out of the door for my morning walk. I run down the five flights of stairs that separate my home and the outside world before stopping at my mailbox. I haven't checked it for about a week, avoiding anymore stress life could possibly curveball at me. For some reason, however, I suddenly feel the need to empty it, possibly because my body is remembering that it's housing a 22-year-old adult with responsibilities. I open my mailbox-locker-thing and reveal the newly freed items.

Magazine. Scam. Throw-away. Credit card I definitely don't need. Magazine. Not mine. Magazine.

Eh, why did I expect anything—?

Suddenly, I feel a light tap on my shoulder. I rushingly turn around to find a familiar badger standing in front of me with hands behind her back and a smile larger and brighter than the sun.

“S-Sticks!?”

“Hiya Tang Tang!” She hugs me. But I’m very, very confused.

“Sticks—? Isn’t the police investigating the incident?”

“They sure are,” Sticks answers with a smile, putting her hands—and whatever is in them—behind her again. “They asked me some stuff but let me go early, since I wasn't actually there.”

“Oh…” I'm still confused. I mean, her coworkers were suddenly evaporated yesterday morning, but she's being her normal, cheery, talkative self, as if it had never happened. Sometimes I wonder if she's sociopathic.

“Where ya goin’, Tang Tang?” Sticks asks. “Doin’ that dangerous walk of yours?”

I groan. Here she goes again.

“Somethin’ bad can happen to ya, y’know. Some robot attack can happen, or maybe some weirdo can feel extra grabby today, or maybe  _ you _ can get vaporized outta nowhere! Not only that, you’re also always going here and going there without eating a single thing…”

She promptly reveals a reusable bag from behind her. She powers through it and points a footlong sub towards my face.

“Let's walk an’ eat together,” Sticks says with a smile. “And I don't care if any other guy don't like seein’ us eatin’ on the sidewalk.”

Usually, saying no to Sticks is a death trap, so I take her unwanted gift and follow her down my usual route.

Metropolis is made up of long noisy strips of towering skyscrapers and vendors selling nothing of importance. Except for maybe food, something I've been ignoring for a while, until now I guess. Anyway, these same people selling the same stuff yelling the same prices just add to the monotony—not the excitement that so many people believe—of this loud, bustling city.

We finally arrive downtown and stroll through slower than I usually do. Sticks rambles on about consumerism and conspiracy theories throughout the way, talking so much that she forgot there was a sandwich in her hand. She finally opens it and continues with globs of vegetarian footlong in her mouth—wait no, the sandwich actually has ham, so she only survived twelve days—and devours the thing in under four minutes. Incredible.

We approach the Rose Company skyscraper I was fired at, but a familiar, gut-wrenching scene surrounds the area and abruptly stops us in our tracks:

Police cars, broadcast vans, an ambulance, police tape, and a crowd all gather around the building in a mix of confused horror and curious anticipation.

“Isn't… this the place you work at?” Sticks speaks to me with eyes glued at the scene.

I barely spew out my answer. “I… I was fired, but—”

“C’mon,” Sticks grabs my hand and drags me closer to the scene. Police push the noisy crowd back as other mobians in blue stand in front of the double doors, holding their noses. Some of them are even passed out on the ground.

And I quickly find out why, because as we get closer and closer, an atrocious stench gets worse and worse. We shuffle through the crowd and the smell of burnt flesh is more than unbearable.

“Sticks, the smell…” I pull my hand away and place it over my nose.

“I barely smell anything,” Sticks says. “It's like overcooked beef or something.” She has a crap sense of smell, different from most badgers I know.

“No…” I say, staring at a familiar white aircraft descending inside police tape, letting off the same three famous mobians from earlier. We are so close to the building that I feel a small rush of wind from the deployed plane. “This… smells like death.”

I watch Sonic speak to some officers on the scene and glance at the group of watchers, including Sticks and me. Police begin to move us away again.

“I think I know what's happening here, Tang Tang,” Sticks loudly whispers to me. “I know exactly what's happening…”

What is she on about  _ now _ ?

**◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊·**

I lay on my makeshift couch with a thick sketchbook full of ugly fashion design under my head. The only outfit I even remotely like is of a yellow crop-top over a black jumpsuit with orange stripes long the sides, and a cool pair of yellow shoes to top it all off. I can see myself in it.

Sticks is sitting beside my feet, reading breaking news articles and mouthing short bursts of surprise. Four-hundred-and-six people, gone from the Rose Company’s Metropolis division at 7:06 AM, just like that. If it wasn't for the screaming inbred, it would've been 407 people. So I thank him, I guess.

I watch more of what's on in front of me, which is an over-edited cooking show with a bald judge who's too mean for comfort. He's not even a chef. I love him.

Sticks watches more short clips of news reporters describing the scene, interviewing Rose Company representatives, and speculating if Metropolis will issue an evacuation warning in the near future. She picks up the remote I balanced on my hip and shuts off the television.

“Are you seriously watching that while this is happening?” Sticks asks and drops the controller on the carpet.

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“I-I dunno, you don't feel it's a teeny bit inappropriate?”

“Why?”

“Wh-Why? Y'know why! You’re watchin’ some stupid cookin’ show after four hundred people disappeared in seconds! And you could've been one of ‘em!” Sticks raises her voice. “Isn't it even a bit scary? How about your coworkers?”

“Earlier, you acted the same way,” I argue while sitting up. “All happy and giddy after your coworkers disappeared.”

Sticks is silent for a moment, but then looks away. “Well… they… I barely knew them. And—” Sticks sighs. “It’s not about me, it’s about you—”

“Yeah, no,” I say and lay back down.

We sit in a short bit of silence—which probably lasted about four minutes—until Sticks speaks up again.

“You bum me out sometimes, you know.”

“I told you being friends with me was a bad idea.” I move my knees to my chest.

Sticks sighs and says, “It wasn’t. At all.”

“Oh, right. You were my friend before I became retar—”

“Dude!” Sticks hollers in annoyance. “You didn't! You just… just—”

“Changed,” I quickly hiss and close my eyes. “I completely changed and those first couple of weeks made me realize just how much of a letdown new Tangle is. My brain changed for the worse. So I became a re—”

“You're not a damn letdown, Tang Tang! Or the r-word. That's not even how you use that—” Sticks lets out a quick sigh. “That-That word is terrible and doesn't apply to you, o-or anyone for that matter. You're great to have as a friend and I wouldn't change a thing.”

Sticks is up from the couch by now—or so I feel since my eyes are shut—obviously angered by the chat that I was probably too pouty in. She continues.

“And that's why I have to tell you something important, because you might be in grave danger!”

Grave danger? Me? I open my eyes as to caution myself through whatever craziness she's about to throw my way. “What are you on about?”

“Think about it. This disappearin’ mess. It has to be connected to you!” Sticks says as she paces in front of the “couch”.

I shoot up from my position and blink. “You… You can't be serious.”

“I am,  _ 100% _ ,” Sticks confidently answers. “The fact that you go to the market every other Friday at about 6:40, and then to work at about 7:00, and  _ then _ the peeps disappeared  _ around those times _ completely proves it. It has to—”

“Yeah, uh-huh,” I sarcastically say, now getting  _ pretty _ bothered by Sticks. “Because no-one else in the  _ entirety _ of Metropolis can have a similar routine.”

“But—”

“And this murderer wouldn't just kill me in my home,  _ alone _ , despite the fact he  _ obviously _ has the tools to do so.”

“Oh, come on,” Sticks looks at the ceiling in annoyance. “That’d be too obvious. Maybe they don't want us to know. Or maybe they don't know where you live.”

“If he knows my routine, then he'd know where I live,” I say.

“Again, too obvious. Maybe they want to get as many casualties as possible,  _ including _ you. Maybe they're like a yandere or something. Or perhaps this person has a strict code of honor?”

I roll my eyes and roll myself back on my couch. “Let it go, Sticks. It's unreasonable.”

“I don't know,” Sticks crosses her arms. “It's reasonable to me.”

“I'm just… going to go nap, alright?” I say with eyes open, getting snuggly on my stack of unfinished sketches.

“Oh,” Sticks’s places a hand on her forehead and another in the air, raising it's pointer finger. “Uhm…”

“What is it now?”

Sticks lowers her hands and glances at her phone. “Well, you… can't do that just yet—”

“And that's because…?” I slowly rise up, letting my body’s weight rest on my right arm.

“Well I—” Sticks scratches her head. “I invited a friend… for something…”

Wait. She invited one of her friends  _ here _ ? In  _ this _ mess of an apartment? Well, to be honest, they probably don't live in any greater conditions either, but I'd still rather Sticks not invite random people to my dirty and cramped home without asking in such short notice. She does insane things, but this is just rude.

“Why would you do that?”

“Well I… Asked him to come for a lead… on the case…”

I squint my left eye. For a lead… on the case? What, one of her friends is some sort of detective? Is she friends with a hero—?

That's when I feel my heart thump at a name that flashed in my head. One that I'm  _ hoping _ doesn't come out of her mouth. I ask anyway:

“ _ Who exactly…? _ ”

Sticks dryly chuckles as she refuses to look into my eyes. “Ah, nobody, y’know…

“Just… uh, Sonic the Hedgehog.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying it so far! Please leave a comment with any criticism you have, if you'd like. Thanks!


	3. Staring at a dirty, dingy lemur.

“ _You asked_ **_Sonic_ ** _to come_ **_here_ ** _for_ **_no reason_** _!?_ ” I yell at a panicked Sticks and shoot up from my couch.

“Hahaa, of course not… As if I… even _know_ Sonic. Pfft. I'm pulling your leg…” Sticks tries to cover up her statement as she texts her phone, probably to the person who's, most likely, already heading out the door.

“No, you do,” I say. “I… know you do.”

“That's funny,” Sticks tries to say more confidently. “I thought you didn't know how to joke around.”

“You're right, I don't,” I respond, prompting her to look up from her device. “Because, believe or not, he showed up at the coffee shop again to let me know that you _told him about me_. And you didn't let me know, or ask if that was cool, or even thought about what you say for once in your life. Ah, right, because they _shut you up._ ”

“Oh, ha, what?” Sticks tries to cover her face with her phone as I step closer. “You know Sonic? How… uh, unbelievable. I wish _I_ could meet him—”

“ _Sticks!_ ” I'm beginning to get paranoid. Is she being serious?

“How did _you_ meet him? I mean, not that _I_ have—”

“ **_Sticks—!_ **”

“I'm texting him, I'm texting him!” Sticks yells over me.

“Sticks, do I look like— Does my house— Do… Do you think I **_feel_ ** like meeting someone like… like— Ugh!” I stomp around and grab my head. “Tell him! Tell him to go away!”

“Fine! But we— Or, uh, I mean,” Sticks shakes her head and continues typing. “The thing is, do ya really think somebody like that would even _come—_?”

A jingle of knocks plays on my door.

It freezes me in place, and, for a short while, we are silent enough to only hear our synchronized breaths and cars driving in the distance. Both Sticks and I stand in place, staring at the door, until my friend frantically turns to me and whispers:

“Clean up, I'll be back.”

I want to protest so bad, but my body refuses my mouth to spout a word and does what it was told. Sticks opens the front door enough for only her body to slip through and closes it, while I pick up cups, clothes, snack boxes, and other junk and throw them into wherever necessary. Now that my living-room-kitchen-dining-room-hybrid is clean enough, thanks to some help from my underused tail, I rush to the bathroom to wash my face and do _something_ with my hair. I walk out, in a stained black t-shirt and lady-boxers, thinking about how insane the situation is and—

Sticks is sitting at my dirty, dingy dining table.

With Sonic the Hedgehog. Himself. At my dirty, dingy dining table.

Staring at a dirty, dingy lemur.

“Hey,” Sonic greet me and waves, with a friendly but noticeably uncomfortable face. “Uh, if you're not cool with me being here, I can lea—”

I mutter, “No, uh, I mean—”

“I have a lead,” Sticks chimes in, “and it has something to do with Tang—”

I shout through clenched teeth, “Y-You don't have a lead!” Sonic shuffles in his seat and fixes a messenger bag he's carrying.

“Buddy! At least let me tell ‘im what I think,” she tells me. I shut my eyes, sigh and rush towards my room to put on a clean, yellow shirt and basic gray sweatpants.

Sticks continues, telling the hedgehog everything she speculated earlier. I walk back out, twiddling my thumbs and staring at the ground. How else is someone like me supposed to act around… _Sonic the freaking Hedgehog_? I need to get Sonic something to drink. Or eat. Or something.

So I go to the kitchen—which is just behind the tiny dining table from where I stood—as Sticks finishes her nonsensical theory.

“... and that's what I know,” Sticks crosses her arms. “The timing is too perfect, unless you can find other peeps with Tang’s routine. But she's a unique lady, Sonic. Trust me.”

I turn back to Sonic to ask if he wanted something—I can't believe that's even a thought on my head—and I find this look on his face that perfectly encapsulates how I feel about Sticks’s “lead”.

“Huh,” Sonic says before I could open my mouth. “I’d say it’s _probably_ too early to guess that, since this disappearing thing only happened twice now—”

“I told you, Sticks, it’s just too nonsens—”

“—but it’s a possibility, for sure,” Sonic finished.

I hear an excited gasp from Sticks. She then grins ear to ear and promptly exclaims, “Finally someone who trusts me!”

I stand at my fridge with the door open and all of its coldness leaking out into the warm spring air. I stare back at the blue hedgehog who just agreed with Sticks, the badger who might be right _some_ times but definitely has a screw or two loose somewhere. Or… Or maybe _I_ do?

“I mean, anything is possible at this point,” Sonic ponders, arms now crossed and eyes wandering between Sticks and me. “We just ruled out Egghead…”

I grab an empty cheap pitcher and a few ice cubes from an empty cheap freezer. Sticks quickly asks, “What, why would you rule out _that_ guy?”

“We were battling when the second incident happened,” Sonic begins to inform us. “He was in the middle of monologuing about this and that at the time of the Rose Company disappearance. Knowing him, he would've said somethin’ before the attack. ‘Sides, Amy getting the news that something was up even took _Egghead_ by surprise.”

I finish pouring two glasses of ice-cold water and place it in front of my unwanted guests. Sonic nods at me as thanks and they continue.

“Still doesn't rule him out,” Sticks says. “Acting. Clones. Specially-designed robotic creations of destruction! It's endless. It's Robotnik's doing!”

“Eh,” Sonic looks down at his phone. “Trust me. It's not him.”

I watch him text someone rather quickly. I ask two rather idiotic questions: “Why are you here again? Shouldn't you be out there saving lives?”

Sonic looks up at me and smiles. He finds my questions amusing. Who wouldn't?

“That's _kinda_ what I'm doing,” Sonic replies matter-of-factly, chugs half of his water, and continues. “Any information is valuable right now and Sticks has a lead. Not only that…” His words trails off as he shuffles through his bag. He pulls out two small, weird disc-shaped things with the Sonic Team logo on them. “... these are for the both of you.”

“Communicators!” Sticks yelps, launches from her seat and take hers. “He's asking us to help, Tang Tang!”

He's asking me to _what_?

“I’m s-sorry, Sonic, but…” I say as sternly as currently possible. “What?”

Sonic slowly pulls “my” communicator towards himself. “Wanted to know if you wanted to help out near HQ. You can—”

“I’m sorry, but n-no… no way,” I starnly interrupt. “I’m not a hero.”

Sonic’s silent for a moment, but keeps eye contact. He seems disappointed. He holds the communicator to my front again.

“There’s housing near HQ in Station Square… I don’t want you at the wrong place at the wrong time, _and_ I have a plan.”

I keep my hands away from the object, waiting for his explanation.

“Trust me, Tangle,” he persists, now donning a serious look. “If we see nothing while you're there—since this guy is avoiding _you_ but not everyone _around you_ for some reason—then we can definitely confirm Sticks’s theory and find out a way to keep the casualties from growing anymore.”

I take my gaze from his face and shift it towards the disc five inches from my chest. Is he seriously considering Sticks’s theory, over two coincidences? Can they even be considered coincidences? Besides, I vowed to take care of myself and reject a handout like a _house_. I can’t—

“Tangle,” Sticks says. She said my actual name. “This is all just in case. If I’m wrong, _you_ don’t die on your way around the city. If I’m right, _other people_ don’t die on your way around the city. You even get a house in the process! It’s a win-win-win in my book.”

I breathe in, breathe out and think for a moment. Sonic is just being more safe than sorry, is he? Sticks had to pitch an idiotic idea and now he’s trying to do his job—save lives. I sigh and just take it. My life will be back to shit after this mess in no time.

“Well, I better get goin’. I got a ton of stuff to do,” Sonic announces while standing up and stretching his arms. He points at us. “When do you want the ride to come by?”

Before I can even process the question, Sticks shouts, “At 3!” That’s in five hours.

“Alright.” Sonic pushes in his chair and drinks the rest of his water. He speaks again.

“It's way too dangerous to live here right now, anyway,” he says while bending down for his bag and hanging it over his head and on his left shoulder. He lets his long quills free from the strap.

Sonic starts to walk towards the front door but stops before leaving and turns to us.

“Just… Just be safe until the ride gets here, alright, you two?” Sonic says in a soft, basically-motherly voice. “I wished Metropolis listened to me and issued an evacuation order already. There's been too many lives lost by now.”

“I mean, money hungry corporations and government officials run this place, Sonic,” Sticks spouts.

“Guess so,” Sonic barely smiles and shrugs. That's all you can do when Sticks talks about that stuff. Though, I feel like Sonic probably agrees. He gives me hippie vibes.

Sonic the Hedgehog heads out the door and finally leaves in a sonic boom. The same hedgehog who appears on the news every single day. The same hedgehog who saved the world several times and more. The same hedgehog who’s the symbol of hope and the defender of justice.

And he’s concerned for a prostitute.


End file.
